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It Takes All Kinds, Issue 5 


Viraya by Jamie Ribisi Published by bravegirlstudio in conjunction with VAS Littlecrow 


31 January 2007 

Welcome to the 2" year of It Takes All Kinds. There isn't too much to say that won't sound 
cliché, but | still wanted to write something to start off this issue. Firstly, if you came across 
any mention of a Best of for year 1, it'll be forthcoming at the end of the year when | have 8 
issues to choose from. With the crazy schedule I'm keeping these days, | have to admit that it 
was a stretch to even get this issue done and out. Hell, I'm not even contributing anything this 
time around. [Well, not entirely true. | had to fill some white space, so | did a couple little bits 
of digital art] However, after some discussion with Vanesa of VAS Littlecrow and Rick of 
Dandelion Studios, I'm seeing this a good thing. ITAK has grown enough that | don't have to 
come up with any filler content and | can focus on choosing quality submissions and come up 
with a zine that | can be proud of. This will also give me an opportunity to focus my writing 
for my one-issue-so-far perzine, “Yeah, but still...”, and a few other things in the works, though 
not necessarily zine-related. 

Anyway, I'm really excited about this issue. We have our usual suspects, as it were, with 
Dangerous Lee, Rick Silva and Gynn Stella, Steve Green, and Vanesa Littlecrow W. We also 
have a few new faces, including Jamie Ribisi with the gorgeous painting that made the cover, 
Beth Langford making a second appearance with some art this time, Eric Blair, and Adrian S. 
Potter (who first appeared in issue 1). 

I'm proud to mention that ITAK has its first paid ad from Eidolons.org. Melissa makes beautiful 
journals and books and her site is worth a look. 

Finally, we come to the final installment of The Book of Coffee by Loki W. Kaspari. As a treat, 
| am reprinting all of the previously printed installments. 

On a more business note, the next issue will be out in April. Submission deadline is March 31%. 
Find more info at the website: www.bravegirlstudio.net/itak. 

Until next issue, 

Misty 


Grocery Shopping 
by Tim O'Brien 


There nothing I hate worse to do that go grocery 
shopping. It has been weeks since I have gone and there is 
literally no food left in the house. I am hungry and there is 
a Cub Foods less than 2 blocks away yet I chose to 
starve... 

...Why is that I wonder??? 

Well first of all I do not cook. Anyone who knows 
me well knows Mac & Cheese is to complicated for me to 
make so it seems somewhat to be a waste of time to go. 
Why make it when someone else can for you? 

Number 2 is kids... I like kids and hope to have 
them someday but I swear its like an unpublished rule that 
parents must drug their children with Red Bull and candy 
before they take them to the Grocery store so they can run 
wild. Then once the get to the store they set them free to 
pillage everything they see... Can't this ritual be save for 
when you take them to the grandparents? 

Number 3 reason is seniors. It seems like when I am either always in there way or they are 
in mine. If I am in there way it seems that once you get that AARP card you become exempt from 
ever having to say "excuse my" ever again. Usually they just push or shove or wiggle their way in 
between you. This is MN after all - please respect the "personal space bubble!". Carts become a 
weapon if you are in their way too (see #4 for more detail). Now if they are in your way, well then 
you are basically just screwed. They don't have to be at work at a certain time nor do they have to 
pick up the kids after school and longer so they have ALL DAY to make sure they are in your way... 
Never fails too, they will herd up in front of the one item you need to buy. And no matter how many 
times you say excuse me they just do not move! 

Reason 4 is carts. An item designed to assist in the purchase of goods and seems in nature 
like a good device but it really is the root of evil. Whenever I go grocery shopping, if I need a cart it 
seems that I always get the cart with the broken wheels. It is almost as if it is reserved and is 
waiting at the door for me. Once inside the store it becomes a Weapon. I do not know about you, but 
I personally like my ankles in tact as they are, yet every time I go in there someone has to take their 
shot at injuring them. I am not trying to be a whiner here but seriously, it HURTS LIKE HELL PEOPLE 
to get rammed repeatedly in the ankles with a cart!!!! 

Number 5 reason is coupons. Its a nice marketing gimmick - convince the consumer that 


Steve 06 


by giving them a quarter off on their overpriced purchase they are getting a good deal. Why not just 
give everyone the best price all the time??? And when it comes to checking out the person in front of 
you in line is always the coupon worshiper and has about 1000 of them in their hands they need 
franticly sort through while you wait for them to achieve that "big savings".. Meanwhile you have lost 
2 hours of your day but in return they were able to save $2.33 on their total purchase! =) 

Number 6 reason (and then I will quit because you probably can sense how I feel by now) 
it the Dairy manager. This person's job in life is to hate me. I am convinced they sit in the back 
cooler with a door-cam just waiting and watching for me to enter the store. Once I am enter the 
store the "sucker" alert goes off and the employees are then deployed to move all the expired dairy 
products into my easy reach as they know it will be an easy sale. Then there is me just trying get out 
of the store alive and still somewhat sane I always grab it.... Some people might turn around and 
"return" the bad milk but the know I will write off the loss of the $1.69 to avoid going back and it is 
mission accomplished for them!!! 

So I could go on and on for days but the point has been made and in turn I have found yet 
another way this morning to waste my time and avoid the grocery store. Think I'll stop for something 
all the way in. 

SLACKER 
HEY SAM, WAKE UP. COME YOURE THE WORST 
ONNNNN, WAKE UP ALREADY! SLACKER EVER! YOU NEED ' NM TURE THAN DOING A MUNCHIES- 


TO GET YOUR PRIORITIES « p ry RUN? ANSWER THAT YOU 
STRAIGHT! = 3 


Inuit 3 by Beth Langford 


Playing Scrabble by Laura Cushing 

"Would it be nice to time travel?" | asked, pondering the possibilities. 

Jules grunted, and reached for the dictionary. 

"No really, just think about it. You could affect the entire etymology of any word in 
that dictionary. You could make any new word exist. Just go back in time, use the word, make 
sure it gets heard and repeated, maybe published - falls into common usage..." | placed my 
letter tiles carefully. 

Jules shook his head, and set the dictionary down, eying what I'd just written.. "A word 
like, say... Sngfth?" 

| nodded. 

"You're out of vowels, huh?" 

"How'd you guess?” 


Over It by Katrina Joyner 


You detest bridges. One the way home from school at night, you try to avoid 
them but there are only three roads you know. They each have bridges with metal 
grating and a daunting gap to the water below. So you drive over them as carefully (or 
quickly) as you can. Behind you, other cars practically ride on your bumper. You think 
maybe they hate bridges, too. 


The worst is when traffic backs up, and you have to creep over that bridge. You 
have no car radio. At least the air conditioner works, except the heater is broken. 
Winter will be coming soon, and jackets are uncomfortable. You glance often at the 
useless heater lever, wondering what it takes to fix it. 


Around you, buildings twinkle like some fairy tale city. There are flashing lights and 
a siren coming up the bridge behind you. The other cars are already edging aside. 
Cursing, you veer the steering wheel to the left. Closer to the edge, you eye your rear 
view mirror to watch the ambulance move past lt finally does, but only after the car in 
front of you moves up an inch. 


Sometimes when driving alone, you fantasize tuming your car sharply to the side. 
You picture the lurch as momentum pushes your vehicle into the clear air. The water 
would hit with severe brutality, but the car would save you from instant death. Then you 
would sit, trapped, as water rushes in. Your last moments would be spent gasping with 
your nose at the roof. 


You hate bridges, but you are strangely fond of breathing so you dont take the 
invisible side road. The traffic finally begins to edge forward until you slide down the 
other side. Ambulances and police cars are parked at the bottom and up the highway 
a litle ways. There is an accordion which used to be a black truck pulled onto the 
grass. Several paramedics are clustered around a pale lump of flesh, which does not 
move. 


Trying not to stare, you wonder if it might be someone you know. Speculation 
takes grip in your mind. What if its your landlords bookkeeper? Wouldn't that be nice? 
You would love to see that bitch prostrate on the side of the road with paramedics 
futilely trying to keep her alive. Then you wouldnt have to worry about her coming into 
the house while you're gone. Your belongings would stay put, and she would never 
again say, “The house is a mess!” because you left a textbook on the table. 


Then, if you had something to say to the landlord, you could email him and say it 
yourself. | would be okay if you occasionally came home too tired to straighten the 
couch cushions. You grind your teeth as you think about that; how the woman just 
walks into the house and accuses you constantly of never getting any housework done, 
even when the only mess is a dirty glass in the kitchen. You hate her for being your 
landlord's friend, as well as his bookkeeper, and a meddling asshole. 

You wonder what it would take to just shove her off of the bridge and be done 
with. 

The flow of traffic speeds up, and your exit ramp comes into view. You take it, going 


ten miles faster than you should, and glide onto an empty highway. You are eager to 
get home because your underwear is riding your crotch. Your toes are twisted in a 


cotton wrinkle of discomfort because your socks are drooping around your ankles. Behind 
you, the bridge looms forgotten in the night sky. 


The next moming, you hit the snooze button as many times as you can. Finally, 
you throw a pillow at the alarm clock. The clock smashes to the floor, cracking the 
faceplate and making a continuous, sick sound. If you had super powers, you would 
throw a fireball at the bloody thing. It would not be a big fireball, of course, because 
that would bum the house down. 


What the hell. You live in Springfield, which bumed to the ground at the tum of 
the 19th century. Your creaky house was built in 1913, after that famous fire. What 
harm is a little fire going to do, anyway? Maybe Springfield would bum down twice, 
taking your job and your landlord's bookkeeper with it. 


In the mad rush to get away, you are caught in the scramble of panicked citizens 
as you flee towards the water. Flames are hot on your back while women scream. 
Idiots jump into the river, which sweeps them away in a swirling curent. The bridge is 
so overloaded with fleeing people, it succumbs and crumbles. Falling bodies tumble 
downward, pushing each other deep under the water with fatal splashes. 


Just as you feel yourself slip downward, you open your eyes and stare at the 
ceiling. The alarm clock is still screaming, even though you have overslept by two 
hours. This is the fifth time you have missed work, so you dont even bother to call. 


After crushing the alarm clock with your dictionary, the one that was a gjft from your 
ex, you sweep up the pieces to put in the trash. They never make it there, because 
on the way into the kitchen you notice your homework on the floor. Without a job, you 
will finally have time to get things done on time. 


Ignoring your homework and the clock pieces now set by the wall, you go back 
upstairs. You throw away the wom out socks, put on some sandals, and brush your 
hair. The doorbell rings, but you don’t answer the door. The bookkeeper lets herself in, 
earings jingling and fingers winking from ridiculous amounts of gold. “Hello?” she carols 
into the empty front room. 


The door shuts; the bitch is inside now, looking at the broken clock pieces and 
neglected homework. She has a fist on each hip, and her bushy eyebrows are lowered 
into a straight line. You just know it. She is thinking about calling your landlord to 
complain. Maybe she will take a picture of the clutter and insist that she can find 
someone else to house sit while he’s on vacation. You want to stomp on the floor 
hard enough to make the chandelier fall on her head. 


She goes into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Taking this marvelous 
opportunity, you sneak out the back door and nearly run to your car. Another car 
almost hits you as you pull out. “Asshole!” you scream, but with the windows up so no 
one can hear. 


There is not much traffic going over the bridge today, so you take it at your own 
speed. Blue skies span around you, and sunlight glitters on the water like a thousand 
drowning, buming men. Once you reach the other side, you park your car along the 
side of the road. That is where you sit for an hour, watching the water. Police cars 
drive by on the highway, but no one disturbs you. 


You wonder what its like to dance on the water with the sunlight The bridge, 
looming, has no answers for your philosophical query. After a while, you get out of your 
car and begin to walk. Your feet pass each other, and you are filled with anticipation. 
Deliberately, you mount the bridge. Your heart begins to pound and you want to tum 
back, but you keep going. 


After a while, your legs tire. The water grows ever more distant, and although you 
are terrified you continue to walk. Cars sweep by, shaking your foothold. A scream 
homesteads in your throat, but you dont make a sound. When you finally reach the 
top, you look down at the water, the dancing lights, and gauge the distance. 

If you had three wishes, you would fly. You would tum the bridge into chocolate, 
or create a working car radio out of thin air. You take a deep breath, leaning over the 
railing. 


“YOU FUCKING BITCH, | HATE YOU!” you shout. 


Around you, the echo dances 


with the lights. You stare at the buildings where you stand, defying gravity. The city 


stands with you, without pushing back. 
slowly across the sky. 


Finally, you start your descent back to the silent cab of your car. 
and the passenger side window rolls down. 
“Did you break down?” 


“Nah,” you say with a mouth full of teeth. 


eyes. “Are you alright?” she asks. 


“Are you sure?” 


“Yep,” you say while your feet keep moving. 


“Thanks for your concem, though.” 


This is where you stay while the sun moves 


A truck pulls up, 
Inside, an old woman blinks with bovine 


“| just felt like taking a walk.” 


The truck crawls alongside of you. 


The woman nods after a moment, rolls up the window, and the truck moves away. 


If you were magic, you would give her a golden goose. 
Maybe he makes her bring him beer while he farts and burps in front 


man at home. 
of the television. 


When you finally reach your car, you slip inside and lean back in the seat. 


Maybe she has a gruff old 


There 


is nothing else you want to do today, but you crank the engine and get back on the 


highway. 


The bookkeeper is still at the house when you get home. 


“Hello” she says 


with a smile on her face, thinking about the clock pieces and the homework. Your 
textbooks and folders are now stacked neatly in a comer, and the pieces are gone. 


You would have liked to keep those pieces, you decide. “I was just leaving. 


like the bathroom is finished.” 


It looks 


“Awesome,” you say, retuming her smile with the enthusiasm of an aardvark. “I 


have to get going to work, or I'd stay to chat. 
She doesnt mind, in fact she seems relieved. 


Sorry.” 
You change clothes in your bedroom, 


being careful to fold your dirty underwear into a neat triangle and lay it on the pillow of 
your bed. You hear the door slam, and the house settles back into isolated feeling of 


emptiness. 


For a while, you stand at the window and watch the neighborhood. 
His clothes are murky with filth, and he keeps 
You recognize him; he begs for money outside of 
His cart is empty, but his hands are gripped 


pushes a shopping cart down the road. 
his eyes to the ground as he walks. 


the emergency room at the local hospital. 


A dark man 


tightly on the handle as he travels out of your line of sight. 
The mattress gives just a little when you sit on your bed. The blankets are 


rumpled in mountainous heaps, and the pillows need fluffing. 
The phone rings, and you think about your 


valleys, your hair becoming a silken river. 


You cun between the 


ex. You remember those bottomless brown eyes, dancing as you finished your beer to 


say, “Lay me another.” 


You cant remember if you two had sex that night. 


The phone stops ringing just before you get up to tear it out of the wall. 
Outside, someone blows their car hom. The 


again, things in the house stand still. 


Once 


sound manages to get past the window pane, but its faint when it reaches your ears. 


You close your eyes. 


Wisdom Blank 
by Ton O'Brien 


A taste for guestions 

Ah tye for answers 

A stomach that couldn't 
hahd/e esther. 


The View from the Bridge by Steve Green 


Life’s a bridge, 

spanning the gulf 

between the moment of our birth 
and the instant of our death 


Some choose the duration of their journey; 
others barely step on at one side 
before reaching the other 


Do we have further bridges to cross? 
and should we decide instead 

to leap over the barrier’s edge, 

what awaits us in the darkness below? 


Zephyr and Reginald: Minions For Hire 


ITS THE CONTRAPTION 
WE BUILT TO CAPTURE 
SPIRITWOLF. 


Defining Love by Jeremy Gibson 


Love, is the ultimate salvation. 
Complicated yet beautifully forsaken. 
Love, is the defining of your patience. 
Heart and soul, a heavenly combination. 


Dreaming on a cloud 

Flying. 

Love, is the spiritual connection. 
Intimately defying the rules of gravity. 
Love, is the heart's natural protection. 


Love, is the purest addiction. 
Something like a miracle within. 

Love, is the realest account of fiction. 
A portrait of commitment; easily written. 


Love, is the balance of your imperfections. 
Your confidential secrets revealed. 
Love, is the feeling of consciousness gratitude. 


Bond by love, indulged in the arms of your soul mate. 


Babylon by Lauren Kenney 

Did you count yourself lucky when you saw you'd survive? 
Glad to know you'd forget the strontium in her eyes. 

Well the verdict’s in, doctor, and you’ve met your demise 


The prognosis is death in a martyr’s disguise. 


And you laid the bricks of Babel with your blood and your sweat. 
Determined to claw out of your strontium net. 

Well the verdict’s in, doctor, and I think you'll regret 

For had you built her with bone, she wouldn’t have fallen down yet. 


And you'll stand at the window with the dogs down below 
Convicted of crimes that you feel, but don’t know. 
Well the verdict’s in, doctor, and the evidence shows 


That despite best intentions, we reap what we sow. 


And you laid the bricks of Babel with your blood and your sweat. 


Watch the dogs salivate as you pay off your debt. 
Well the verdict’s in, doctor, and please don’t forget 


Expunging your actions won't erase your intent. 


by Gynn Stella and Rick Silva 


T NEED MORE THAN 
A GLORIFIED BIROCAGE! I 
WANT HER OBLITERATED!! 


NO WAY JOSE! 
WE NEED TO TAKE 
HER ALIVE! 


ACCORDING TO OUR 


CALCULATIONS, SHE COULD BE 
A SILICON-BASED LIFE FORM! 


WE COULD WIN THE 
NOBEL PRIZE! 


GERMANIUM- BASED 
WOULD BE EVEN COOLER, 


Harvest Walk by Rick Silva Matty Be Good by Laura Cushing 


The dried leaf crackle echoes each footfall ety 
while wind sweeps precious warmth from flesh ! didn't Stee NONE when daddy told me 
andthe ghost of every breath lingers a moment, Matty weren't no good. 

taunting, circling, leering, Wouldn't have helped-- he wouldn't have 
disappearing, one more mortal reminder believed me none. 


that the veilthins to parchment skin "Demons got hold of that boy." Daddy 


while shadows wing their way i : ` 
to play or prey on these most fragile hours, said, and swore a lot while putting the 
instruments away. Daddy's band was 


We bring candlefire, sheltered playing down at the Divine, and Matty'd 

fixed by melting wax within ‘pout ruined the show. 

ME el oA uie) seek | didn't add that the demons possessing 
him were kind of literal like, neither. 

“Take this soul, not mine this night "| took his trumpet as payment," said 

Taste this fear, this inner light Daddy, "cause it was what'd hurt him the 

Snuff outthis flame, your hunger sate.” most. Trumpet's about the only thing that 

A mask, a hood, a stout wool cloak, rai ag OS Man ae 

a mile to town, by the wagon road, ei 

air scented sweetfrom haybale, Daddy was wrong there, too - ‘bout the 

cider press, and woodstove fire, trumpet being the only thing. But there 
was truth in taking it hurting Matty- that 

We gather tonight to tell the Old Stories, boy loved to play. Lived to pay. He played 

to sing harvest plenty promise like no creature born of this world could 


of hope to see the next planting, 


to dinee asked! our numbers uncounted: ever. Thats 'cause he wasnt. Not born of 


hall doors open to the night cold, a momma and a daddy like the rest of 
offering sharing to whoever... us, not come up out of no womb. 
whatever seeks our warm mortal cheer | didn't tell Daddy how he himself had 
this cold thin night wished Matty into being that stormy 
December, when we near starved to death, 'cause the band wasn't so good. No one 
wants to swing and jive to a band ain't got no good horn player. That's just how it 
is. Daddy wanted his band to get a gig so bad, he'd given a piece of his soul as 
the bargain. 

Wouldn't have done no good to tell him, ‘cause then I'd have to explain that I'd 
gotten my gypsy momma's gift. That would have just added to his burdens. 

So after Daddy'd packed Matty's shiny trumpet away with the other instruments, 
locked it up tight as a drum, | marched straight on down to the gin joint my Daddy 
couldn't keep Matty outta. Matty was still there, slobberin and crying like a kicked 
dog. Fell right offa his chair when he seen me, and | picked him right up again 
(I'd inherited more than momma's sight, I'd also taken after her curse. Another thing 
that Daddy didn't need to know). 

Anyhow, | looked him straight in the bleary eyes and | said "Matty Parker, you 
get yourself outta this joint and clean yourself up, right now!" 

"Lemme be, Amy,” he muttered. "I ain't no good." 

Hearing him talk like that hurt worse than anything. My father's words had bit 
right through Matty, and he was believing them at heart. 

"Ain't none of us no good, Matty Parker. Ain't none of us no bad, either. We 
only is what we are. And right now, you is more'n a little drunk - and you smell 
kinda bad, too." 

"Miss Amy, | love you," he sobbed into my shoulder as | drug him toward the 
door. 

"| know Matty, | know." | didn't tell him just then that the feeling was mutual 
like. "Ain't your fault you got a demon soul." 

"| know, | know," he echoed back at me as we staggered out the door and 
into the sun. 

"That just means you gotta be like me. You can do what's right, Matty. You 
just gotta work a little harder to figure out what that right thing is." Was a disability, 


that's all. Like how in school where sometimes | wouldn't pick up on things as quick 
as the other kids. | just kept right on trying 'tll | caught on. 

"My head hurts powerful bad, miss Amy," Matty complained, squinting hard 
against the sun. "And your father fired me from the band. What'm | gonna do?" 

The answer was clear as churchbells. "You're gonna run away with me, Matty 
Parker." 

"But Miss Amy!" he protested, holding his head from the effort, "Your father's 
been kind to me. Kinder than | ever deserved." 

"You ain't got no idea what you deserve, or what Daddy's got commin’, neither," 
| said. However unintentioned, Daddy'd called a demon into being and he was 
getting the threefold payback it cost. Weren't no evil in the intent, or the purchase - 
but that didn't matter any more than the use for an omelette or an egging mattered 
when you bought eggs from the grocery store. 

"But what'll we do?" he whined, still drunk enough to be shrill. 

"First we're gonna get your trumpet back,” | said, " and we're gonna get away 
from this town. And then, Matty Parker, then you're gonna learn to be good ‘cause | 
won't have my husband any other way." 

His eyes got real wide like. "Husband? Amy, | can't. | mean, how are we 
gonna... you love me, huh? You love me, don'tcha?" 

| turned away and that was all the answer he needed. He slipped his pale 
hand, smooth as a baby's ', into mind. One of the peculiars about Matty, having 
never been born, was that his hands was real soft and white, and didn't have no 
swirls and whirls like most fingers have neither. 

"You'll see, Amy," he said, sobering up from the serious talking. "I'm gonna 
learn. I'll show your Daddy, I'll show all of ‘em. I'll learn to be good." 

"Ain't a matter of being good, Matty Parker. It's just what's right." | was gonna 
have to keep saying that until he understood. He had no idea of the journey he'd 
just begun with that one step, the one we were gonna take together - but | knew. 
| knew the road ahead of us was unpaved and long, that we weren't gonna get 
where we were goin easy. 

"Amy," he said, his face paler than his hands, "What about my trumpet?" 

"What ‘bout it?" | asked. 

"Your father took it," he said. "Said | owed him that much, on account of he'd 
lost money on me..." 

"We'll get it back," | said, squeezing his hand. 

"How? He won't give it up. We'd like to have to kill your daddy before he 
goes back on his word..." 

"| know," | said, without regret. | saw my daddy's eyes, already cold with the 
grave. Weren't no evil in it, just the repayment. Just what he deserved. 

"Amy! | don't wanna kill your daddy...” 

"Hush up, Matty. " There were people walking down the street who wouldn't 
understand. Same kinda people who had shunned momma every time the curse 
came on her, every time she did what she hadda do. They'd do the same to Matty 
and me, or maybe worse. 

"Amy, Amy please..." | saw in his eyes that he feared for the little piece'o soul, 
dark that it was, that he had. 

"Ain't no thing. Just what we gotta do. You want your trumpet?" 

"More than anything,” he admitted. "Well, anything, ‘cept you.." 

"Then be good, Matty Parker. Matty, be good..." 


se EIDOLONS 


Distinctive Handmade 
Books, Journals, 
and More 


HT TP://WWW.EIDOLONS.ORG 


Vindication! Note: Author name and company have been 
withheld at author's request. 


| bought a pre-inked stamp from K-Mart in March of 1996. It was 
not a big purchase — $7.43 with tax. It was just a simple little stamp 
that said PAID which I've used for the past nine years to mark my bills 
once I've sent payment off. No big deal, right? 


Well, when | bought it something about the packaging really disturbed 
me. To this day I'm not sure why, but it really stuck with me. The 
box claimed that the stamp had a "lifetime warranty" -- that | would "never 
have to worry about running out of ink" or the company would replace it 


for free. | remember looking at this cheap plastic pre-inked stamp and 
thinking that there was no fucking way this stamp was going to last a 
lifetime. | knew the company just put that on the package as a sales 


tool, counting on the fact that when the stamp did run out of ink; no one 
would actually take the time to send it in for a replacement. It was on 
that day, nearly nine years ago, that | vowed to get my stamp replaced 
for free when it ran out of ink. 


You know what's coming, right? Yep. My stamp ran out of ink last 
night. Here | was all ready to mark my telephone bill as "paid" and my 
"lifetime warrantied" stamp would not make a mark. Fuck that shit. Sure, 
itd be easy to run out to the store and spend another $8 on a new 
stamp (after all, $8 every nine years isn't so bad) but its the principle of 
the situation. Sure, they're willing to make all sorts of promises about 
their product when they're trying to sell it to you, but would they stand by 
their product when they needed to replace it? 


Id saved the original packaging and receipt for just this very occassion. 
The warranty section of the box referred me to a customer service number 
for any stamp-related issues. | called them earlier today: 


CUSTOMER SERVICE: "Hello, customer service, how may | help you?" 
ME: "Hi there. | have a stamp that ran out of ink.” 

CS: "How long have you had the stamp sir?" 

ME: "About nine years." 


CS: "Wow! What can | help you with today?” 


ME: "It says on the back of the box that | never have to worry about 
running out of ink, and that if | ever did, | could send the stamp in for 
a free replacement” 


CS: "I'm not sure if we're still running that promotion..." 
ME: "It wasn't a promotion — it is a Warranty." 
CS: "Please hold for a few moments while | find out what our policy is..." 


[90 Second Pause] 


CS: "OK, we can replace your stamp if you have the original packaging 
and store receipt.” 


ME: "| have both of those." 
CS: "You do? Really?" 
ME: "Yes ma'am | do.” 


CS: "| dont think we've ever had someone keep their receipt and 
packaging.” 


ME: "I've been waiting for this day for nine years." 


CS: "Uh. Hmmm, Well, we'll need you to send the stamp back along 
with a check for $5.99 to cover postage for your new stamp." 


ME: "Is that what you consider free replacement Because it kind of 
sounds like you're charging me $5.99 for a stamp that you claim will 
never run oùt of ink." 


CS: "Well, ummm, | guess | see your point, but that's what | was told." 
ME: "Let me speak with your supervisor.” 


CS: "Ok, hold on. Let me see if | can work this out before you talk to 
my supervisor. 


[Two Minute Pause] 


CS: "Ok, I've spoken with my supervisor and he's agreed to let me send 
out a new stamp to you free of charge." 


ME: "That's great. Where | can send my old stamp?" 


CS: "Oh, there's no need to send the old one in. We believe you. Let 
me just get your address, and we'll send you a new one.” 


ME: "That's very generous of you." 


CS: "To be perfectly honest, my supervisor told me that this is the only 
request he's ever gotten to replace a stamp where the person actually 
kept ner receipt and packaging. Most people just go out and buy a 
new stamp. 


ME: "'m not most people." 


CS: "I guess not. You should receive your new stamp in one to two 
weeks. Thank you." 


ME: "Thank you." 


I's the small victories that make life so sweet. 


Felz Cumpleanos By Laura Cushing 

In retrospect, punching my hand through the plate glass of the living room 
window hadn't been the brightest idea. Now | was sitting on the porch, the rain stinging 
my eyes and the wounds as | waited for Mac to arrive and rescue me from the 
situation I'd gotten myself into. Really, | had no one to blame for this but myself... well, 
and maybe Sofie, just a little. She'd thrown me this party for my 24th birthday, even 
though we'd only been going out for a couple of months. Apparently, a couple of months 
was enough that she'd decided who got invited... which meant all ‘our friends (meaning 
her friends), and not Jules and Mac. To her, my bandmates were the ultimate in 
forbidden - they had no manners, they didn't ‘respect the earth’, and didn't fit in with the 
trendy new-age vibe that she was going for. 

| hated everything about my birthday party - from the fact that she'd insisted we 
have it at my place, to the biodegradable streamers and recycled paper plates that were 
decorating the table. Most of all, | hated her friends, mulling around and wishing ‘Sophie's 
boyfriend’ a ‘happy one’, like they couldnt even remember my name or the occasion. And 
then, she'd gone and done it.. 

"Play something, Michael," she'd said. Not a request, a command performance. 
All her friends looked up expectantly, having heard , of course that ‘Sophie's boyfriend’ 
was 'some kind of music major. 

Embarrassed, and more than a little annoyed by the request, I'd refused. "No 
one wants to hear me play,” | muttered to her, shaking my head. The stereo was 
already on, playing one of her transcendentalist cds, and | wasn't about to repeat that 
kind of sound. My music was vulgar and raw, like the bandmates that weren't welcome 
at the party. It didnt belong here. Today, | felt like | didn't much belong here either, and 
this would just make it worst. 

But she persisted... and persisted... until finally, | was shouting. "NO! | dont want 
to play, and I'm not going to play, so drop it!" 

| don't shout often, and her friends are apparently as unused to the sound of a 
raised voice as she was. They looked down their well-formed noses at me, and started 
gathering their things to leave. Sophie was crying, telling me how | ruin everything 
because | can't be appropriate. Its the same speech she gives me, only in reverse, 
when | won't ‘fuck her because | prefer to delude myself into thinking we're making love. 

As she was leaving, suddenly I'm feeling abandoned like she's taking everything - 
like she's my mother, walking out when | was 14. My mother, who sent me a postcard 
from Mexico on my 17th birthday with some shitty sombrero wearing dog on the front 
wishing me happy birthday in Spanish. 

"Feliz Cumpleanos," I'd shouted (again) and punched my hand through the glass 
as she hurried off the porch and out into the rain. She didnt tum around, not even for 
the sound of shattering glass. 

Fortunately | had my cell in my pocket, so | didnt have to go back inside and 
track blood all over the carpet in addition to the glass and the rain. | called Mac 
because nothing surprises him - he's the calmest person | know, in any situation. Jules 
would have been freaking out the whole way here, and not to mention when he got 
here, wouldn't have had much of a clue what to do. Mac being older and wiser than 
both Jules and myself, he was the one to call. 

I'm sure he got there in a timely fashion, but it seemed like | sat for hours 
soaking to the bone and staring at my arm wondering if | could pick the glass out 
myself with my off hand. Wondering about stupid things, like if I'd ever get another 
girlfriend, and why blood plus rain equaled pink, and why | didnt feel much at all other 
than numb. | hadnt explained much of what happened over the phone, but when he got 
out of the car, Mac was carrying a towel. He carefully put it around my am, waming 
me not to press down because of the glass in my skin and started guiding me towards 


the truck. 


"| think the emergency room needs to handle this," Mac said, then opened the 
passenger side door for me. 


"I'm sorry.” | stared down at the blood already seeping through the towel. "I 
fucked myself up good." 

It was my right hand, too. My good hand - and | needed my hands to play 
my guitar, besides. What if | had managed to damage myself beyond repair? 


Mac got in the other side, started driving towards Perinthus General. "Everyone 
fucks up. Its going to be okay." 

The conviction in his voice was solid enough to make me believe. And | still 
have scars on my hand, wrist and arm from that night - but | recovered, | can still 
play. | see Sofie sometimes, around town. | wonder if | had done what she wanted me 
to, would we still be together? | doubt it She always looks the other way when | pass, 
and lve never had the nerve to speak to her about what happened that night. | really 
dont know if I'd apologize, or just say that | hope she found someone to fuck her like 
she wanted, but who was siill tame enough to perform for parties. 


Maybe its best that we dont speak. And if it had all gone the way she 


wanted it to, | don't think | would have liked the person I'd become. 


Dear Martin by Don Savant 


dear martin 
i too 
have a dream 


i 

have a dream that 
stretches from 

the lowest point in the valley 
to the 

tip of 

the highest mountain top 

it 

stretches from 

the left coast 

to 

the right coast and 

from the bottom of my feet 
to the crown on my head 


you see 
i too 

am a king 

not by name 

not by status 

but by culture 

and in this life 

i will accept nothing less 

than the spoils that my kingdom brings forth 


through my 

hard work 

my dedication 

and my faith in God 

i will 

surpass those who 
attempt to shackle me 
i will 

progress 

further than 


this society 

would like me to and 

it's because of you 

that i have the will to do so 


because of you 

my dream 

will be fulfilled 

and with that accomplishment 
i will try my best 

to hold hands with 

and uplift 

those around me 

whether i know them or not 
and help them to 

also reach their planned destinations 


as one 
iam merely a man 

but with people 

who share my dream 

with knowledge 

with love and support 

iam aman on a mission 

with a team who will push me 
until we all have made our way 


determination is in my soul 

it runs 

through my blood stream and 
keeps my heart moving 

while 

my focus remains in tact 

and while 

i continue 

to move forward 

and ultimately make both yours 
and my dream come to pass 


DAD, TM GRATEFUL THAT 
YOU GAVE ME YOUR OLD 
GUITAR, BUT THERE'S A 

ORLEM, 


Path by Jamie Ribisi 


DONT THINK OF IT AS A 
EXPAND iO MIND, CHILD BROKEN GUITAR, DEAR 
THINK OF IT AS A 


BROKE TO FIX 
IT, DAD! 


“IT'S BROKEN DIY BASS. 
AND TM TOO \ iy 
dd 


Emotional Purgatory 
by Don Savant 


its that 
feeling again 
that 

i can't 
breathe 

that 


smile that won't stop spreading across 


my face 
that 


nothing or no one else matters but her 


mentality 
that ive experienced so many times 
before 


i ask 
each time 
is this 
the time 
is this 
my time 
to live in 
our time 
or 

do i 

still need 
more time 
to grow through one more heartache 


love is 
bittersweet 

like 

salted chocolate 


and though i 

wouldn't take anything for it 
i also 

wouldn't encourage 

anyone to seek it out 

yet i 

wouldn't advise anyone to miss out 
because 

its definitely something to 
speak about 

whether it's filled with 

the truth 

or a line of lies 


love is 

the only emotion that 

can capture 

and bring forth all others 

from within your soul and 

it can be 

the greatest feeling 

or it 

can be the worst experience of you 
life 

therefore i 

approach you 

with caution 

this time around because 

im not yet sure 

if this time 

is the arrival of a brand new love or 
the beginning of a brand new pain 


Queen by Cecil L. Donaby Jr. 


Behind every strong man 
Is a stronger woman 
Reflecting the light of the Sun 
In the absence of ONE 
The mother of civilization 
She raises a nation 
At times mistreated and abused 
She takes on the responsibility of two 
We must start protecting our EARTH 
She's the origin of our birth 
In her fullest equality 
She completes me 
Together hand in hand 
We unite 
And bring forth the Sun of Man 
She shines bright 
Even in her own light 
And deserves recognition 
Acknowledge her position 
And call her by her proper name 
Do not bring her shame 
She is royalty 
To be treated with dignity 
So take a knee 
And bow to her Majesty. 


Beautiful Black Queen by Cecil L. Donaby Jr. 


My Beautiful Black Queen 
I acknowledged you in a dream 
Like a prophecy 
You were sent to me 
The vision of what a true woman should be 
Smooth chocolate complexion 
A perfect creation 
Thick lips 
Full hips 
A fine physique 
Full of mystique 
But for years mistreated and abused 
By those who said they loved you 
Unaware of your royal robes 
You accepted their hoochie clothes 
Degrading you in music videos 
Calling you names like *bitches* and ho 
So I come to you Queen 
To return you to your throne 
To your eminence 
Revealing to you your forgotten radiance 
Whether Cocoa Deluxe or Butter Pecan 
My beautiful black Queen it is you we long 
Let me wrap you in your robes of fine linen 
Transcend you to who you were in the beginning 
My Beautiful Black Queen 


Nubian: Beautiful Black Queen 2 
Cecil L. Donaby Jr. 


NUBIAN is a hue ensconced in 
Your delicate skin 
An elegant blend 
Of Taffy, Tapioca & Mocha. 
The desire to gaze on, 


For a romantic or platonic 
Liaison is a 
A nuanced response to 
Your clay onyx. 

Men want to play on it, lay on it 
Mold its soul, drape its shape. 
But our image tends to limit, diminish; 
Our thoughts result 
In corruption of the substance. 
So we cannot be visionary, 
Only divisionary. 

A soothing jaunt into 


Your NUBIANCE 


Your Beauty in the true sense of consciousness 
Has ancient roots 
Beneath the sanctioned roof 
Of the authentic 1st World 
---Africa--- 
Thru forensics, its birth pearl 
Has been shown to have grown 
Alone on its own 
Under a strong Black sun, that spawned 
Moral beings 
Long before the crack of one flat dawn 
For Europeans 
Who only later 
Searched, learned & found 
That the earth turned round. 
And You 
My Queen 
Were Discovered. 


Windswept by Rick Silva 


Cranberries wash against the edges of the bog- 
canals 

Remnants of the late summer harvest now 
decaying sweet 

With the awakening warmth of the springtime 
sun 


Ground grows muddy and at noontime under 
open blue 

While the wind off the Atlantic rushes in salty and 
sure 

Picking up the fruity fermenting scent that calls 
to the birds 


It’s too cold yet for the beaches or the mini-golf 
courses 

Only one of the fried clam shacks has opened out 
on Route 28 

Christmas Tree Shops still has displays of snow 
shovels and de-icer 


Father puts on his jacket, opens the back door 
and smells the air 

Opens front and back barn doors, lets the wind 
clear out the cobwebs 

It’s time to think about getting the boat back in 
the water 


1 THINK Q 


IWANT r a 
j WAN l; 
WEE KOR A NKS YOUR BABY! CT THANKS CUTE? —_~ REALLY?! 
r ” N IM SO HAPPY 
x : Y YOU THINK 


/ SO. LETS 6O 
OUT! 


Center of the Universe by Eric Blair Somewhere in Fargo by Vas Littlecrow and Thien Tran 
"It's the 10th of November 2003 and | just checked my e-mail. And 
yes this is me living in the past. Not being able to move on. The past is 

all in your head. Everything was as dramatic. As edge-of-the-seat. As life 
or death. As beautifully tragic as you want it to be. Don't worry, nobody 
else who was ever there will ever call you on how much you are blowing 
everything out of proportions. How much you're exaggerating. How much it's 
all a lie. Your past. Your beautiful tragedy to sulk in for the rest of your 
life. Your life, the lie. Nobody cares though. Everybody else is just as busy 
constructing their past out of the worst memories. Events. Deaths. 
Relationships. Funny how you only remember the negative shit isn't it? | 
guess it is much more interesting. Who really likes happy endings anyways? 
| wasn't expecting to hear from Suzy again. Suzy with her three moods, 
"bloodthirsty, lusty and suicidal." Suzy with her nicely packaged explanations 
for why nothing ever works out. Suzy with her drug problem. Suzy who's 
so incredibly sorry for everything. In the e-mail Suzy says | should "grow 
up.” Suzy says Im not the center of the fucking universe. Suzy says | 
should stop trying to be so tragic and sad all the time. Suzy says if | did 
| might stop being so unhappy and sad. Suzy thinks the fucking sarcasm 
and bitterness is getting old. 

Some days are so good there's nowhere to go but down. Some days 
your life feels like a 24 hour Kodak picture spot. All smiling. All singing. 
All dancing. Some days you just can't relate to the rest of mankind. 
Humanity. The world. Because you just can't understand their attitude. Their 
pessimistic approach to this beautiful life. Some days you could die happy. 
And looking back, it's too bad you didn't. It's too bad | didn't. The setting 
is Atlanta, Georgia. To be more specific, "Little Five Points." Lighting, 
sound, and direction is by Everything Fucking Perfect Productions. And this 
is the plot. This is the pitch. This is me on vacation. This is me knowing 
exactly what I'm going to do. This is me realizing that perfect moments are 
made not given. This is me sitting outside a gas station with Suzy 
smoking cigarettes and drinking iced tea. She goes in to buy drinks and | 
stay outside smoking. | stay outside inscribing a book | just bought for her. 
This is me keeping it simple. | write her name. | write "Suzy." | write "I 
love you." And | sign my name. | give it to her when she returns and 
this is just the best day ever. | talk some bullshit about how I'm putting 


her in charge of my happiness. This is me finally doing something. Walking 
back to her truck | consider every passing wall, storefront and alleyway. 
This is something happening. | grab her in front of a theater and push her 
up against the building. This is me taking action. This is me holding Suzy 
up against the wall with a crazed smile on my face. This is another in a 
series of mistakes | build my life around. | ask Suzy if she wants to get 
married and she smiles. She smiles and | just start kissing her. Up against 
the building she doesn't have to worry about how to respond with my 
tongue in her mouth. We kiss for awhile and then we resume walking 
back to her truck. | think she's a little shocked. Me, I'm walking on air. | 
did it. | actually asked. And for the second time with a big smile on her 
face. Looking flushed. Looking happy. She says, "You're fucking crazy." 

"Fucking crazy,” that's what she called me when | asked. She didn't 
answer right away. The speed freak. The meth addict. Suzy didn't answer 
right away. Didn't answer right away when | kissed her up against a_ brick 
wall. Didn't answer right away as to whether or not she'd marry me. | 
know what you're thinking it was a stupid idea, but like any stupid idea it 
made sense at the time. She said yes the following night and my future 
started to come together in my head. This was all while | spent a week 
with her in Georgia. While | thought | had everything figured out. While 
everything was perfect. It was a bad idea from the beginning. It was all a 
bad-fucking-idea from the beginning. Every fucking moment was a mistake. 
Working together. Staying in touch. The park bench. The kissing. The hand 
in her pants. The concert. The motel room. The speed. The kissing. The 
making out. The everything but fucking. Breaking up with Libby. Going out 
with Suzy. Going to Georgia. The whole week of fucking bliss. That other 
concert. Getting lost in Atlanta. Finding ourselves in her bedroom. The 
constant fucking. The drinking. The smoking. Little five points. The brick 
wall. The proposal. The kissing. The thinking that everything was going to 
work out. Possibly feeling like the person | dumped Libby for had to be 
more than an affair. Possibly being two people who didn't believe in 
happiness. Wanting to believe in something. Anything. Each other. All the 
pictures. The airports. The bedrooms. The families. The bedrooms. The sex. 
The constant e-mails. The phone-calls. The phone sex. The postcards. The 
letters. The rings. Our trip to Savannah. Our trip to the ocean. Our trip 
together. Losing my glasses out the passenger side window. Vomiting all 
over her car and myself. We listen to Richard Hell on repeat and she 
asks me if I'm ok. Covered in vomit | tell her that I'm having the best 
day of my life. And | love her. And she loves me. And it was all a 
fucking mistake. 

Have you been paying attention? Are you finding a lot that interests 
you? That you can relate to. Do you see a lot of yourself in me? Or 
were you sleeping this whole time while life was happening?. While my life 
was passing you by. Were you going to work while all the interesting 


events occurred? Going to school. Watching television. Going to movies. Is 
this not interesting enough for you? This won't make you rich. This won't 
improve your social standing. How god views you when he's not too busy 
watching BYU football. Just give me one more chance. A couple of days. 
A few weeks. A year or two. Give me some time to become interesting 
enough for you. Im trying really hard. Just don't complain that this isn't 
going anywhere. That it doesn't make any sense. That it offers nothing, but 
asks for so much. You really should have grown accustomed to that far 
before came here. This overly dramatized portrayal. This never ending 
illogical bullshit. This me. Me on the phone. The beginning of something 
else ending. It's late and Suzy missed her plane. And we are talking on 
the phone. And then Im walking up to meet her. It's a little awkward. It's 
a lot of talking. No worrying. It's so fucking cute. She seems happy. | 
seem completely out of sorts. | hang out at her old house for awhile. 
Where she was living | met her. This is much later. We still don't know 
each other, but of course we're in love. The world can go to hell. An 
easy attitude to have, but try telling that to the world. You know what it 
will say? No difference. Same thing. The next day I'm still acting weird, 
almost as if my life is falling apart around me. And we both go up there 
to hang out with Suzy. Keep her company. Just a little friendly 
conversation. Libby and | go up there and | hit the bottle. | talk in code. 
| act "fucking crazy." And with Libby only one wall away | kiss Suzy 
goodbye. On the flight home she writes, "| needed to get him alone for 
just one second...He leaned over and kissed me....| looked at 

him...stunned ..."You are fucking crazy"" On her flight home I'm still in 
reality. Things fall apart. We begin talking on the phone all the time. E- 
mailing all the time. We love talking to each other. Our voices are so 
comforting. When we are feeling down we are always around. This is the 
beginning of phase 3 of my life having anything at all to do with Suzy. 
Phase 1 was meeting her. Initiation. Seeds planted. Phase 2 was putting 
my hand down her pants in her rented car. Kissing a girl | really shouldn't 
be kissing. Seeds beginning to sprout. And here's phase 3. Love long 
distance style. This is after the meth induced attempt at sex. This is after 
the "I love you"s are exchanged. This is the seed growing into a beautiful 
plant. In phase 5 it will be revealed that this beautiful plant is a weed. So 
don't be too surprised when it kills everything. This is as good a place to 
end as any." 


MODERN COMMUNICATION 


THERE'S THIS THING 
CALLED TALKING FACE 
TO FACE — 


MG Ds 


Slipped Awayby by Morgan Barnhart Somewhere in Fargo by Vas Littlecrow and Thien Tran 

I was watching TV as I normally did every night after work. I remember exactly what I was 
watching too, The Cosby Show. I loved that show. Still do, actually. I was laughing away, unaware of 
what was happening no more than ten feet outside my bedroom door. 

It’s funny, you know, thinking back on it. I really had no idea what was going on. I was so blind 
to everything. Not just that night, but through out the entire two weeks in which his life slowly faded 
in front of my eyes. I was so busy with work. Yeah right, I wasn’t that busy with work. I just 
pretended like I was. I would come home and see my dad at the dinner table barely able to eat the 
canned pears set in front of him fifteen minutes ago. My Uncle was kind enough to help take care of 
him while I refused to. I didn’t verbally refuse to, but through the act of ignorance, I refused. 

I didn't see it. Or didn’t want to see it. I wanted to see him getting better. I wanted to watch 
him get up and walk outside and play with our dog as he usually did. I wanted to see him get in his 
car and go to the grocery store or his weekly visit to the pharmacy to get his dozens of medications 
refilled. I really just wanted him to be able to have a coherent conversation. 

Then it happened, he lost it. He lost his mind. 

He came home from yet another trip to the hospital and started babbling about characters from 
his stories coming to life and laughing at him, telling him that they were going to take his cherry. I 
just thought he was teasing me. I kept pulling away, not wanting to hear him, telling him I didn’t 
understand. I kept saying I didn’t get it, what are you talking about, there’s no one here. Then he 
asked if my cherry had been taken. I felt so uncomfortable. Not because of the question, but because 
I didn’t know what to do. I was lost and confused and didn’t want to be having that type of 
conversation with my father. 

Even then, I ignored it. Telling myself that it didn’t matter. The next day he seemed to be a lot 
better, as if he had come back to life. At least, that’s what I hoped. I thought it was great that he 
had recovered from the delusions. Maybe that was a sign that he was finally getting better for real 
this time. 

But it didn’t. He lied in bed for days at a time, only getting up to maybe get a drink of water and 
eat some canned pears. I wasn’t home too often, but when I was home, he was always sleeping. I 
never even went into his room to say hi when I came home. I walked passed as if he wasn’t there. I 
ignored him, not wanting to face my dying father. 

When my Uncle finally came into my room in the middle of the Cosby Show and said, “He’s 
gone.” I thought he was just saying that dad had run away or something. I don’t know, my dad was 
crazy sometimes, it could have happened. 

But that wasn’t what he was talking about at all. 

He was gone. 

Even then, when I walked to his bedroom, I couldn't face him. I tried to ignore it. I couldn't face 
reality. I couldn’t. How could he really be gone? It had to be some cruel joke. 

I forced myself to take a quick peek. I quickly backed away, gripping my shirt tightly and 
breathing heavily. 

It wasn’t him. It wasn’t him. He was just sleeping. Just sleeping. 

It was him. 

In the blink of an eye....he slipped away. 


By Adrian S. Potter 


Love Commentary #1: 
Love is a Bitch Like That 
You know, it's 

absolutely true what they say 
about that old whore, Love. 
Sometimes she needs to be 
insulted or scorned or even 
pushed around a little bit. 
Because once you show her too 
much compassion, once you 
start reciting all those silly 
clichés and cutesy pet names 
that she wants to hear, she'll 
begin thinking that you’re soft. 
If you show too much kindness, 
she'll inevitably mistake that for 
blindness, and next thing you 
know she'll be creeping off with 
your best friend to the men’s 
room for a quickie, or giving the 
hired help an extra tip in your 
bedroom while you’re out 
working overtime. If you seem 
like a pushover, she will sure as 
shit humiliate you, and probably 
in full view of your peers, co- 
workers, and relatives. You just 
can't expect Love to simply 
reciprocate your newly-minted 
feelings of passion without 
causing you pain; that’s like 
trying to find a dog that doesn’t 
piss on hydrants. 

She will make a habit of 
proudly lifting you up ona 
pedestal for everyone to see 
and then slyly shoving you off, 
cracking jokes while the whole 
world snickers at your misery. 
Love is a bitch like that. That’s 
why it’s always better to tease 
her than to please her, to never 
give in, to always let her seek 
you out and not vice versa. 
Because all the joy remains in 
the hunt for Love; once she’s 
captured you, if you are lucky, 
she'll eventually set you free, 
confused and disoriented, 
without any reason or logic 
behind your release. If you're 
unlucky, she'll torment you 
from the inside until you’ve died 
a thousand deaths, and yet you 
will still long for her torturous 
embrace. 


Love Commentary #2: 
The Human Factor 
What makes a fiercely 
independent man crave a 
female’s presence in order 
to feel complete? The 
answer seems as complex 
as any other aspect of 
psychology. But it is clear 
that there is truly no 
substitute for love. Men 
attempt to suppress this 
primal need with money, 
career goals, and various 
trophies, but they all end 
up suffocating underneath 
self-loathing and 
emptiness. Ideas and 
material things can’t 
forgive and accept 
shortcomings, reciprocate 
adoration and trust, or 
provide affection and 
passion. The male’s urge 
to need and give love is 
thoroughly ingrained in our 
genetic makeup; it is an 
integral part of our DNA, as 
organic as the hormones 
influencing our behavior. 
Without it, we become 
useless things, like music 
lacking a listening 
audience, an artist minus a 


character that folks recognize 
but don’t know why, a nameless 
commuter who gets spoken to 
because you might be a famous 
musician, the night janitor at 
their office, or a bully who 
tormented them throughout 
middle school. That’s why you 
can hardly make any new 
friends, let alone find love. 

People tell you, “Be patient. 
There are plenty of fish in the 
sea.” And like a nice guy, you 
believed that bullshit, enduring 
bland nights of falling asleep on 
the couch with a half-empty can 
of Coors and the television still 
on. But fuck that anecdote; 
you've already snagged the fish 
destined for your hook and 
released them back into their 
natural habitat. Or maybe they 
were discarded in the trash and 
are now rotting with your self- 
esteem. Or perhaps they fall 
from the sky like raindrops, but 
only in some exotic location that 
you'll never be lucky enough to 
visit. 

Wherever these alleged fish 
exist, they aren’t swimming in 
the oceans of insecurity that 
drown you. That’s why you 
rove, from bed to cubicle to 


muse, or a tavern devoid of tavern and back to bed again, 


drunkards. So men can try 
to boycott love with hopes 
of having a future blissfully 
free of heartbreak and 
venereal disease, but 
ultimately they'll end up 
searching for it. Why? 
Because without love, a 
man ceases to be fully 
human. 

Love Commentary #3: 
identity theory 
Look, it’s time for you 

guys to admit it: you’ve 
officially become 
anonymous in this city 
overcrowded with 
nobodies. Lately people 
forget your name, even 
when your face appears 
vaguely familiar. At thirty- 
something years old, 
you've now morphed into a 


hoping a foxy lady will drop out 
of your X-rated dreams and 
miraculously rescue you from 
loneliness. You are eager to 
become pussy whipped and 
proud, which creates the very 
look of desperation that keeps 
you forlorn and clueless. Well 
guys, I have a newsflash: it's 
about time you grow a set and 
learn how to deal with reality. 
Stop inviting fate to screw you 
over. Stop allowing your 
manhood to be a punch line ina 
cruel joke that makes every 
woman laugh like she’s 
watching a sitcom. Only then 
will you have an identity. Only 
then will you stop being 
anonymous in this city 
overcrowded with nobodies. 


Mr. Barchanski and the Cherry Tree by Gary Hoffman 


I could look all the way down the alley when I climbed up on the roof of old man Stark's garage. The 
alley behind my childhood home was a gold mine. The alley separated a commercial district from a 
residential area. All the stores faced Brentwood Blvd., and all the houses faced a one block long 
Patton Ave. Well, almost all of the houses. There was one house that someone snuck in amongst 
the row of stores, and it was right behind my house. But, that house was really a partnership of two 
things. 

It belonged to Mr. Jordan. He ran a real estate business from the downstairs and raised his family in 
the rest. He had a son named Edgar, whom I called Eggy. Eggy and I were not only good friends, 
but treasure hunting partners in the alley. 

Right next to Eggy’s house was a hardware store that belonged to Mr. Barchanski. He threw out a 
great bunch of rubble, at least to Eggy and I. Probably 90% of the stuff we used to build our club 
house against our back fence was pilfered from Barchanski Hardware's trash pit. I mean, the man 
really had no conception of what really good stuff was. 

Another of our favorite hunting places was behind a shoe repair shop. Mr. Jacobs had been there 
since the street was first built, at least that’s what my parents told me. He threw out lots of good 
pieces of leather and other objects he used in his job. 

All up and down the alley was a fine place to look for soda bottles. We could take them back to the 
store and collect the deposit money—two cents each. Mr. and Mrs. Espinoza, who ran the candy 
store, would trade us the deposit money for candy. If we each came up with ten bottles at one time, 
we were in treasure hunting heaven. We had lots of unhealthy candy our parents never knew about. 
Other unhealthy things for me included climbing up on our neighbor’s garage roof. Starks were our 
neighbors to the north. Mr. Stark drove an old Model “T” Ford that he kept garaged there. Since my 
Dad was a contractor, he always had a bunch of different materials stacked close to the garage. It 
made for easy climbing to get to the roof. But, Mr. Stark was afraid I was going to put a hole in his 
roof or something, so he complained to my parents every time he caught me up there. 

Another one of my favorite places to climb was a big cherry tree we had in our back yard. I was 
sitting in the fork of that cherry tree one day when Mr. Barchanski closed his store and headed for 
home. He came out the back door, set something on the ground, locked the door, and picked up the 
things he had been carrying. He had a brief case in his right hand and a length of coiled rope in his 
left hand. When he headed for his car, he noticed me sitting up in the tree. He smiled and waved at 
me with his left hand. The coil of rope he was carrying flopped around and settled against his left 
leg. “Night,” he called out in his usual pleasant voice. 

That night, Mr. Barchanski hung himself in the basement of his house. Somehow, the alley never 
seemed the same after that. 


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Ask Dangerous Lee 
October 2006 


Q: Why is it that when you complain about the 
food at a restaurant they give you a certificate 
for a complimentary meal?—Dawn C., 
Whereabouts Unknown 

A: Of course it’s so they can make it up to you 
the next time around, but it may also be a 
second chance to perfect their “special sauce.” 
Q: Why do we have very few African American 
leaders and why don’t pastors play a leading role 
on the Affirmative Action proposal in the Nov 8th 
election? They influence us to go to church, but 
why do they seem to be nonexistent during 
election time? We are a community right?—Isaac 
L., Flint, MI 

A: I have no idea why we have so few African 
American leaders. However, I do think the 
problem is that we spend too much time looking 
outside ourselves and our family for motivation 
and leadership, which I do understand because 
many of us have shitty families. 

As far as pastors are concerned, unless you're 
filling up the collection plate they could care less 
about anything else. Just make sure you get your 
butt out there and vote. You don’t need a pastor 
to tell you that! 

Q: Can women have no strings attached sex or 
“booty calls” without getting caught up, as men 
do?—Wreal, Atlanta, Georgia 

A: Yes, I don’t have a problem with it at all! 

Q: I love hip-hop just like the next hip-hop head, 
but what's up with all these rappers who buy 
gaudy ass jewelry, grillz, and twenty-four-inch 
rims? Why can’t rappers buy things such as land 
or real estate, something where the value will 
increase over time, not depreciate over time? 
—Lamont “Element” Wright, Flint, MI 

A: I’m sure you've seen Cribs on MTV, right? This 
show focuses on the real estate and cars that 
rappers purchase. The problem is that their 
purchases are always over the top. The real 
question should be: Why can’t rappers make 
sensible or simple purchases? My answer is: You 
can take the brotha out of the hood, but you 
can’t take the hood out of the brotha! 

Q: Why do we as a collective hate the skin that 
we are in? Blacks want to be White, Whites want 
to be Black, people with straight hair want curly 
hair, blue-eyed people want to have hazel eyes, 
etc.—Sensual Angel, Washington, DC 

A: Yes, I agree that most of us are not happy 
with what God gave us, but let’s be real, White 
people don’t really want to be Black. White 
people enjoy mocking Black people and using a 
‘plackcent’ like ‘ol girl and Buck Wild, from the 
second season of Flavor of Love. And Black 
people just want to be treated equally, we don’t 
really like the pasty look. And, anyone with blue 
eyes knows it’s against the rules to trade them in 
for a second best pair of hazel eyes. Duh! 


Homophobia 
Isaac’s question touches on a subject that 


has been heavy on my mind lately. I believe that 
George W. Bush is the leader of the free world 
because he got to you judgmental types that 
view homosexuality as an issue. I especially 
believe this is how he got the Black vote because 
while many of you sit in church on your high 
horse you don't take stock of the fact that, as 
Kanye said, “George Bush doesn’t care about 
Black people,” gay, straight or otherwise. African 
Americans are dying from AIDS at an alarming 
rate. Is George W. gonna do something about 
that? Are you? 

I keep hearing that George W. is a good 
Christian man. How so? What about George W. 
screams Christian? If you can name one thing 
about politics in general that screams 
Christianity, spirituality or love, I’ll give you a 
dollar. 

Why do you care if homosexuals get 
married? Heterosexuals do it everyday and we 
suck at it. Are you afraid that homosexuals will 
do it better? Will your marriage be null and void if 
two men or two women exchange rings? I know 
you've heard this one, “If homosexuals are 
allowed to get married, what’s to stop people 
from marrying animals?” Do you really see 
animal and human marriages as something that 
we have to worry about, or are you so damn 
ignorant that you would compare homosexuality 
to bestiality? 

Let me make myself clear because I don’t 
want to down religion. I am not against it, but 
too many religious people are arrogant and self- 
righteous in their views and opinions. Some 
religious people use the Bible as a tool to hate 
and judge everyone who doesn't believe as they 
do. They say, “Homosexuality is a sin!” or “God 
made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve”! Ah 
yes, maybe so, but I also believe that God is 
love. God also forgives, and excuse me honey, 
you're not God and that thing you do at midnight 
is also a sin. That drug you sniff, that life you 
took, that child you molest, that shit is most 
definitely a sin, so stop pointing the finger at 
people who love those that look just like them 
when naked, so that you can feel better about 
the sins you commit. Sin is sin, and we all do it. 
Yes, you too! Stop shaking your head and mind 
your own business. 

The next time you make fun of Clay Aiken 
because you think he looks like K.D. Lang, 
remember that his is probably bigger than yours. 
I’m talking about his bank account; your mind is 
so dirty. 


November, 2006 


Q: Have you insured those damn lips?--Ant 
Boogie, Houston, Texas 

A: Which ones? 

Q: In what parallel universe is Nelly Furtado 
considered a good rapper and Timbaland 
considered a good singer?--Afroerotik, Baltimore, 
Maryland 

A: Obviously in our universe called The Milky 
Way. It’s the universe that they’re making all the 


damn money in with number one hits! 

Q: Why can't a man just tell a woman that he 
really wants to have sex and cut out the "middle 
man"?--Abstract World, Clueless 

A: Men do this on a daily basis, so I assume that 
you're asking why it is a problem when a man 
tells a woman that he wants sex. The answer is 
because if she wants to have sex with you she'll 
let YOU know. 

Q: If you have a relationship and your mate has 
had a history of cheating on whomever they were 
with, can you believe them when they say they 
want to be loyal to you? I know this sounds like a 
dumb question. But sometimes we get in those 
situations.--Hope, Los Angeles, California 

A: It doesn’t just sound like a dumb question it is 
a dumb question and you're obviously allowing 
yourself to get into these situations. That’s like 
asking: If someone has Herpes on Friday, 
Saturday, and Sunday will they still have it on 
Monday? The answer is HELL YES, so that means 
the answer to your question is HELL NO! 

Q: Why is it people are always complaining that 
there is nothing to do in Flint and are always 
running south on I-75, yet they never support 
the positive things happening right here?-- 
Loftlivin, Flint, Michigan 

A: It’s cool, let ‘em go to Detroit. When they’re 
walking their asses back on I-75 North because 
their car was stolen they'll have a lot of time to 
think about all the fun they had. 


The D Word 

Last month I spoke about the issues that 
some have with homosexuality and gay marriage 
and this month I want to speak about how 
straight marriage and divorce are getting on my 
damn nerves. Lately we have been hit upside the 
head with the divorce details of country bumpkin 
singer and Dancing with the Stars competitor, 
Sara Evans. 

I want to start off by saying - Who gives a 
damn? Seriously, why should I or you care about 
the sordid and raunchy details of her marriage 
and divorce? Entertainment Tonight and Inside 
Edition both have had “exclusive” interviews with 
the anorexic nanny/assistant/best friend; Alison 
Clinton that Sara is accusing her husband of 
cheating with. They also go even deeper by 
interviewing Alison’s husband and her father. 
What do they know? If Alison did hook up with 
her best friend’s man these two would be the 
least likely to know! It’s like a bad soap opera. 
This one is accusing that one of cheating. That 
one is accusing this one of being addicted to porn 
(Is that a real problem?) Keep that mess in the 
closet. It’s private and quite frankly it’s 
embarrassing, especially since Sara is a “squeaky 
clean country gal”. As I always say...spare me! 

However, I am very happy that Sara has 
decided to step away from Dancing with the Stars 
to focus on her family. Aside from Jerry Springer 
she should have been gone at least three weeks 
ago. In fact when Jerry is voted off, which will be 
soon, they should discuss her coming on his 
show. Her life is so trailer park right now! Her 
Republican/Country fans have been blowing up 


the phone lines keeping her stiff ass in 
competition, but that’s another issue altogether. 

Then we have Whitney and Bobby. These 
two should have been divorced at “I do”. Is 
anyone really surprised or shocked by this split? I 
believe most of us thought “About time” or “So 
what”, and if you’re anything like me you thought 
“So what! It’s about time!” Crack may be wack, 
but so was their marriage and now so are their 
careers. 

There is light at the end of the tunnel for 
those of you that believe in true love. Mel B AKA 
Scary Spice and Eddie Murphy are hitting it off 
really swell these days. That'll last as long as the 
career of the Spice Girls! Good luck Ed and 
Scary. You’ve both been married once before so 
my advice is to just enjoy each other and sit your 
asses down. There’s no need to plan a walk down 
the aisle because we all know Eddie ain't into 
giving half if it don’t work out! 


Listen to the Dangerous Lee Internet Radio Show 
on CNotes Radio at www.nghosi.com 


December 2006 


Q: What do you think is the most prime example 
of redundancy right now?—Dezi, Fenton, MI 

A: Marriage, especially celebrity marriages. Kid 
Rock and Pamela Anderson are the latest poster 
children for the “Say No to Marriage” campaign. 
Q: Why is it that during the Vote or Die campaign 
of 2004 P. Diddy was anti Bush and said he 
wanted to get Bush’s ass out of office? Now two 
years later he hasn't spoken on it. Was it because 
higher powers were threatening to put him on 
blast? Or was he just trying to sell some t-shirts? 
—Jason, Oakland, CA 

A: Diddy was against Bush because Bush was 
against gay marriage. It’s business as usual in 
Diddy’s world despite bastard twins on the way, 
so there’s no need to be against Bush now. Catch 
my drift? 

Q: Do you think they put crack in Krispy Kreme 
donuts? If not, why does a sista ache for them at 
3 am?—Mizz Sandy, Chicago, IL 

A: No, they don’t put crack in Krispy Kreme 
donuts. You smoke crack or weed and crave 
Krispy Kreme donuts! You should be ashamed of 
yourself blaming Krispy Kreme for your drug 
habit. Tisk! Tisk! 

Q: Should a person marry someone that is in 
debt, thinking that love conquers all?—Mia, 
Chicago, IL 

A: I forget the singer, but the song goes—“Ain’t 
nothing goin’ on but the rent. Ya got to have a J- 
O-B if you want to be with me.” So, if you or 
anyone else thinks broke brothas are cute, by all 
means tie the knot. Cardboard boxes aren’t hard 
to come by these days. 

Q: Why is it that our government isn’t interested 
in championing African causes? We stick our 
collective nose in every other country’s business, 
but Bush & Co. are scared of the motherland. 
Your thoughts?—Dar, Flint, MI 

A: What part of “Bush doesn’t care about Black 
people” didn’t you understand? Kanye West aint 


the smartest brotha with a wire jaw, but he 
wasn't lying. 


If You Can’t Say Anything Nice 
(come sit by me) 

‘Tis the season to be jolly so instead of 
ragging on vegetarians this month as I had 
planned I will be “Nice Lee” and reflect on the 
wonderful year that I’ve had. Besides, who gives 
a damn about vegetarians? They leave me more 
meat to devour! 

I have worked with The Uncommon Sense 
for two wonderful years. Yep, “Ask Dangerous 
Lee” has been published for two full years, and it 
has been an exciting twenty-four months. Matt 
Zacks believed that I could offer something 
special to this paper and dammit he was right. 
What a smart man Matt is! 

Seriously, I have met many interesting 
characters and experienced many new and 
exciting things since becoming a part of this 
team. The Uncommon Sense headquarters have 
also grown by leaps and bounds. We have moved 
on up to a new location and our accommodations 
are quite spiffy! 

Anyway, enough about the paper let’s 
move on to moi. This year has seen the start of 
the Danga Zone internet radio show, official 
Dangerous Lee merchandise, B horror movie 
roles, deeper involvement with the Flint Film 
Festival, a career in television, and a new 
apartment. I’m still broke as a joke, but life is 
good and looking better everyday. The only thing 
missing is Wentworth Miller on my speed dial. 
Hey, a girl can dream! Dreams got me where I 
am today. 

Have a wonderful holiday season and do 
something nice for yourself and someone less 
fortunate. Thanks for the love and support and 
T'Il see you in 2007. 


January, 2007 

Q: Why do people always judge a person if they 
do something that they don't like? And, how do 
people pick or choose their friends?--Big Tray, 
Baltimore, Maryland 

A: People are often judged by things they do or 
don’t do. What are you judging people based on, 
appearance and stereotypes? Here’s the kicker, 
people pick and choose their friends by the same 
standards. Wow! That was a breakthrough, huh? 
Now, guess what I think of you based on the 
question you asked. 

Q: Why do some feel they can give advice when 
they live in a glass hi-rise?--Sensual Angel, 
Washington DC 

A: My glass hi-rise happens to have a wonderful 
view of everything to be judged. 

Q: Why do so many women "pretend" as though 
they're not into kinky, casual sex when they 
know good and well that they are?? I know many 
women who like to play the "I'm so innocent and 
wholesome, and I'm only into having sex within 
the context of a serious relationship" role, but in 
reality, they love to get their freak on.--Alan, 
Gary, Indiana 


A: Not all women want their business in the 
street. Some of us like to shock and surprise you 
with “the freak”, not give it up within minutes of 
meeting you. Then again, there are some very 
prudish and lame women out there when it 
comes to sex. Either way, don’t be mad because 
you can’t get laid! 

Q: I am a Black male with black parents (high 
yellow) but I was indirectly raised with subtle 
traces of Japanese culture. Oddly enough, I wear 
expensive blazers with casual jeans and 
sneakers. I prefer super hero movies or anime 
over 50 Cent and I think I'm the only guy left on 
earth that refers to women as.....WOMEN and not 
hoes (Gasp!). Surely I'm malfunctioning. I guess 
the bottom line question is "What do we as 
BLACK people consider being BLACK enough?!-- 
Kentaro, Dearborn, MI 

A: Seems like you're having an identity crisis. 
You mentioned that your parents are ‘high 
yellow” as if that were separate from the rest of 
us chocolate Black folks. You also mentioned that 
you wear “expensive” blazers. Who gives a 
damn! Stop thinking you’re better than the rest 
of us and that may clear up a few things for you. 
And, let me tell you something else, it’s not just 
you sweetie, there are many more of us out here 
that don't fit into stereotypes. Stop buying into 
ignorance. You should be asking what is NERD 
enough, because you fit the bill Mr.Traces of 
Japanese Culture. 

Q: Do you think there is any particular reason 
I'm obsessed with boy on boy sex? Or is it that I 
just like same sex - sex?--Vernay, Wilmington, 
DE 

A: You're a freak, Vernay. There are no ifs ands 
or butts about it. 


Danger B. Goode 

I'm sorry ya'll! For the second month in a row I 
am biting my tongue. I've been ordered to “Be 
good”. Remember last month when I mentioned 
that I wished I had Prison Break star, Wentworth 
Miller's phone number on speed dial? Well, I go 
the second best thing, an autographed photo 
with strict orders. Check it out: 


So, you 
see I 
couldn’t 
possible 
disobey 
him. You 
never 
know what 
I might 
receive for 
being a 
good girl! 
If I can 
break the 
spell 
February 
will be a 
Dangerous 
month. I 
promise! 


And Her Cub by John O'Brien 

... and breeze and fields green sun breathe just - 

Scent. Scent streams past sleep and I'm awake. Boxed- in air heavy smell and 
heat and no way out. Window open | want someone please | feel sick what's that smell it 
smells like a burning diaper -- 

Wet and cool cloth gentle sudden on my forehead. Everything falling back into 
orbit relax mouth is a desert tasting wine red wine relax voice | hear a voice saying what 
clumsy Arabic | hear a voice -- 

Kelly. That's Kelly's voice. At her place. Her futon. Yes. We had dinner. She 
made dinner. Drinking wine. We were talking about - 

Can't get up. 

Can't move. 

Whole world on my chest pinning my arms legs. Eyes fighting losing open open 
just open. Eyelids revealing flickers candles-- 

Why do they smell like burning shit? 

Kelly is still talking tripping over syllables all wrong her voice cold hushed flickers 
bubbling now Kelly stops gasps-- 

Everything still my stomach turns to ice. 

Quiet. 

Something's in here with us. 

Something dead. Something hungry. 

Kelly what are you doing what the fuck are you doing -- 

Kelly's voice underwater even slow invades my ears like tide hitting beach: 

"You have come." 

"You agree to the terms?" 

"Then | ask for a moment. He deserves an explanation." 

My mouth throat hoarse whimpers roars protests. 

| sense Kelly moving walking toward me crouching slow fumbling her smell sweet 
smell cuts through the burning shit. Her breath hot and deep hits my ear and waits. She 
gently flips the wet cloth over cool caresses my cheek. 

"Mike, can you hear me?" 

| groan hoarse drool escaping. 

Her fingertips rub it down to my chin. 

"First of all, before anything else, | wanted yo to know that | didn't want it to end 
this way. | really didn't. | thought you'd come around eventually. But tonight | knew. | just 


knew you weren't. 


"| slipped something into your wine when you went to the bathroom. Sarah got it 
out of the campus hospital. She didn't really explain what it did. | didn't ask, either." 

| feel her shift her wait, kneeling now, struggling just a little bit. Taking my limp 
hand and pressing it cold against the small hot bulge that's her belly. 

"When | was a teenager, me and a few neighbor girls used to screw around with 
stuff. Witchcraft. | don't think any of us really took it seriously back then, but every once in 
a while | could feel something watching me while | did it ... waiting for me to figure 
something out ..." 

One of the fingers on her free hand finds the drool trail and lovingly draws circles 
on my cheek. 

"| remember the day | told you. Afterward, | walked around for hours. Just 
walked. | don't know how | found the bookstore or how | found the book, either ..." 

She pushes my hand, forcing it to cup her belly. 

"| could read Babylonian somehow, Mike. | could read Babylonian and | knew 
then what | had to do." 

Cold and sharp scrapes my Adam's apple. 

It growls low impatient at my feet. 

"I'm sorry Mike. It's either you or the baby.” 

| gurgle try to form words scream. 

It pounces on my belly walks up my chest waiting impatient 

| can see it's eyes orange burning through -- 

A deep red pain breaks the skin just under my jawbone. 

It laps at me like a saucer of milk. 


And my hand on her belly feels dull thuds — 


The Sacred Book of Coffee. 


By Loki W. Kaspari 

Those of us who live and die by the coffee recognize this book for what it really is; 
a collection of funny stories which may seem vaguely blasphemous to those with no 
sense of humor whatsoever. We encourage such people not to read any further. 

Many of the manuscripts in the Sacred Book of Coffee have been rescued from 
garbage bins or restored from fragments, while others have been deliberately 
suppressed and are only now coming to light. While each Coffee Cult assigns 
different meanings and levels of importance to each, all are agreed that the spirit of 


Coffee is in each of them, if you will but look for it. 


Chapter 1 The Book of Awakening. 

The oldest of the Books of Coffee, the Awakening is said to have been written by 
a Heavy Construction Forman as he sat in a dinner waiting for a call from the driver of 
a cement truck. History is silent about how long he waited, how much coffee he 
drank, these were the days of the bottomless cup for fifty cents. Though we have 
evidence that the cement truck driver did arrive eventually, what passed between 
them is not recorded, which is probably just as well. 

In the beginning there was nothing, and into this nothing woke The Lord God. And 
God was groggy and sore weary, for yea, The Management had been running him 
ragged. T’was His third universe in a Month and not one of them had been built under 
budget or on time. And The Lord did wax wrothfull upon his Contracted Help who lo, 
were probably pinching stuff off the building site even now. 

Then did God say unto himself, “I hope there is some Coffee still in my thermos.” 
So saying, he did reach out unto his thermos, and lo it did come to him. And though 
there was but half a cup within and cold it was, God turned it not aside. For he was 
God, and if He couldn’t summon forth Coffee, He sure as hell wasn’t going to 
summon forth any waters. 

“Let there be Coffee in great abundance,” Sayth the Lord. “And let it be brought 
forth hot, with sugar and cream.” And even as He spake, Coffee did come forth, 
piping hot and sweetened unto the Lords liking. And lo, the Lord God did pour out His 
first cup, and have a sip. And it was good. 

And God, having finished His first cup, did look down upon the building site, and lo 
He did see His Contracted Help milling about and yawning. And the righteous wrath 
of the Lord did soften to compassion and pity, for His Help was ignorant in the ways 
of Coffee, and so knew not of early mornings. And the Lord did resolve to bring 
Coffee unto His Contracted Help, and so ease their suffering. 

“Let there be an engine for the making of Coffee, sort of thing.” Sayth the Lord, 
and lo though He did finish but lamely, such an engine there was. But full weary with 
much lack of sleep, the Contracted Help knew this engine not, but banged on it’s side 
and asked only “Art thys thyng working?” And the Lord spake unto his Contracted 

Help saying “Use ye but one filter, and add thee sugar and cream if needed.” 

And the Contracted Help did partake of this sacred Coffee of the Lord, and lo they 
grew wakeful and eager to face thee day. And the Lord God saw that it was good, 


and lo, he did bring forth doughnuts and pastries, and muffins and bagels also. Yea, 


even did he bring forth individual packets of cream-cheese. 

And the Contracted Help rejoiced and spake praises unto the Lord God, with 
many cries of “Good Coffee!” and “The Lord Maketh A Tasty Bagel.” And lo, 
empowered and awakened by the Coffee, and sustained by the tasty pastries, the 
Contracted Help did pay heed to the Lord’s voice when he spake saying “Get Ye To 
Thy Work, Thou Lazy Buggers!” 

And the Lord did let Coffee flow forth in great abundance, and lo, the work upon 
the universe was finished in seven days, as opposed to the union regulation ten, yea 
and even it was completed under budget. And the Contracted Help did rejoice at the 
bonus that the Lord bestowed upon them for early completion. And though they did 
pinch stuff from the site like always, despite the Coffee of the Lord, He waxed nor 
wrathful against them, but rather forgave them, and stayed his hand of vengeance. 
For yea, the savings allowed the Lord to get replacements in on time, so gravity, and 
yea the inertia too, were working in a manner pleasing and within specifications. 

There weren’t enough neutrinos about the place, but the Lord figured he could 
come back when he had some extras in stock and sneak them in before they were 
missed. 


And it was good. 


The Second Book of Awakening. 

Being the tale of the Lord God bringing Coffee unto mankind. This manuscript was 
written by the Mighty Fred, who claimed that Coffee Creatures from Beyond send 
these words into his mind telepathically, using an old stainless steel coffee urn as a 
long range antenna. Alas, Fred was committed to a psychiatric ward for insomniacs, 
and the manuscript remains unfinished. (Research theologians studying the Coffee 
Cults are still in debate as to whether this book is merely apocryphal or completely 
absurd.) 

It came to pass that the Lord Joe did look down upon the world of men, despite the 
very important work that He really should have been getting on with, and saw the 
masses of mankind laziness and atrophy. For man knew not of mornings, nor of hard 
work at an early hour, and the Lord Joe knew that man would never raise himself 
above the beasts of the field without help. 

Resolving so, the Lord did take a pound of Coffee from His own personal stash, 
and took it down to the world of men. Before many did he appear, instructing in the 


proper roasting of the beans, and the grinding thereof also. And those the Lord came 


among gave thanks and praise, for the Coffee that the Lord gave unto them was of 
great virtue and potency, so that but a sip was like unto an awakening of awesome 
power. 

And so mankind did learn of Coffee, and yea some did stay up late at night, and 
some did awaken early in the morning, but each did give much thanks and praise 
unto the Lord with cries of “Ahhh, Hot!” and “We're out of cream again?” 

And with the help of this Sacred Coffee, Man did rise up above the savage and 
closer to the divine, and lo did turn envious eyes heavenwards upon the Coffee of 
Heaven, believing the Lord Joe in possession of beans of greater potency and virtue 
then the ones he had bestowed upon mankind. They complained of the grinding and 
roasting, for they had become greedy and slothful in their Coffee drinking. 

And the Lord Joe did wax wrathful upon seeing this, and spake in a voice of 
thunder,” Thou honor not thy Coffee like that, you know?” But the people of the earth, 
jittery from too much caffeine, continued their lamentation, and heeded not the 
warning of the Lord. Not surprisingly, this pissed the Lord off something fierce. 

The Lord Joe did consult with his Ironic Punishment department, and lo, it was 
decided that He would flood the world with Coffee from above, and so wipe out 
everything. For the wickedness of Mankind, and their abuse of the Sacred Coffee did 
really get to him, but Joe is a forward thinking deity, and did foresee that if he 
whipped out all life on earth with Heavenly Coffee from above, there would be none 
left to worship him, and leave a pot on the stove in his honor. 

Now it happened that at this time there lived in the land a simple Coffee farmer 
named Noway, who was pure of heart and vexed by the wickedness and sloth in the 
land. And the Lord did look down upon him enjoying a cuppa, and giving praise with 
each sip as was right and proper, and the Lord did decide that of all the men of the 
world, Noway would be spared. 

Noway did look up from his Coffee as the clouds parted and light did shine down 
upon him from above, and lo, being a farmer he did wonder at the sudden change in 
weather, and wondered if he should tarp the coffee bushes against hailstones. When 
lo, the Lord’s voice did descend from on high, and spake thusly to Noway. 

“Good Coffee Is It?” and Noway was sore afraid, but the Lord said unto him, “Fear 
not, for behold | bring you a warning. | shall make it rain Coffee for forty days and 
forty nights, and all living things shall be drowned or die of sleep deprivation. | 


command thee to build an Ark. 


Whereupon, trembling even on his knees, Noway said, “Ok fine Lord, | can do 
that. Um..., what’s an Ark?” 

“It's a boat, Noway.” Said the Lord in a weary voice of one who wonders if this is 
really the best mankind has to offer. “On it you shall take your family and children, 
and two of every kind of Coffee plant, that they may be spared my wrath.” 

(Here the manuscript breaks off, and what follows is largely illegible, appearing to be 
in a different hand.) 

Hot Coffee from the sky did fall, and the earth did tremble and get all jittery, and 


there were many cries of Oh Bugger, we art in trouble now! 


The Book of Suggestions. 

This sacred text, while one of the most recent of the Books of Coffee, is 
considered to be the most influential on the faith itself. The place described could be 
any one of literally thousands of privately owned, out-of-the-way coffee shops. What 
the faithful must ask themselves is this; Did a coffee shop inspire the Book of 
Suggestions, or can this sacred Book be seen in every coffee shop you go into?? 

And the Lord spake saying, “Lo, thou shalt open unto me a temple of Coffee, 
wherein shall ye find bagels and scones, and all manner of delicious bounty, both 
sweet and savory. And those who serve in this temple shall give unto thee beverages 
of great virtue and potency, yea, though they be but infusions of roasted subtropical 
berries and oriental leaves. For those who serve are wise in the ways of Coffee, and 
ye shall know them by the aprons they wear, black that if they spillith, the stain 
showeth not. 

And within the temple of Coffee, ye shall find comfortable furniture and low tables 
where ye might find rest, and worry not at the scratches and rips. Mark ye not that the 
chairs and couches are all different, and matcheth not. Note ye never thy ceramic 
mug in which those who serve bring ye thy sacred Coffee, though it be chipped and 
cracked, and have a humorous text on the side. For all of these things are signs unto 
you, and thou shall know thyself to be in my sight, and thy Coffee is pleasing unto 
me. 

And those who have seen the truth and light of the Coffee shall come unto this 
place, and know peace, and ye shall find books and chess sets, and other 
distractions and pleasures of the mind. And forget ye not thy paper and pencil, for the 
poet shall know of the inspiration through Coffee in this sacred place, yea and the 


musician and comic book artist too shall know the music to flow in their head, and the 
funny little people practically draw themselves. 

For in my temple of Coffee, ye shall find rest and sanctuary from the maelstrom of 
the outside world, and those of my followers who meet ye there shall know ye, by the 
Coffee you do drink. And ye shall know them, and in the Brotherhood of Coffee will ye 
find common ground with thy fellow man, and know peace and contentment all the 


days of thy life. 


The Gospel of Java. 

This Manuscript was unearthed in a dumpster behind the Java Joint Espresso Bar 
during an archaeological expedition/open mike nite in 1997, where it is believed to 
have lain undisturbed for at least three hours. The author in unknown and it’s 
authenticity has never been verified, but such details as can be confirmed raise 
uncomfortable questions. As such, it has been widely renounced as apocryphal by 
church leaders. 

But be ye ever vigilant and righteous in thy Coffee, for there shall come among 
you those who would see thy sacred Coffee enslaved and thy temples torn down to 
be replaced with their own graven idols and inferior brews. They will come among 
you not for love of Coffee, but for greed and conformity, and a need to see all things 
the same. 

Ye shall know these traitors by the signs they shall display, that of the caribou, 
and the male deer from the stars. Ye shall know them by the signs thanking ye for 
smoking not! Ye shall know them by their non-biodegradable Styrofoam containers! 
And ye shall see that they do erect their false temples on unholy ground, strip malls 
and shopping centers, yea, even unto the lobbies of major corporations head offices. 

| say unto thee no good can come of these places, and no good Coffee either, 
turn ye aside from them and pay no heed to their pleas of “Organically Grown.” Nor 
be ye tempted by their cries of “Discount Card!” Look ye not to their menu and 
consider, for the Coffee of these places shall be as ashes and dust in thy mouth. And 
there shall be a great wailing and gnashing of teeth, and the women shall wail and rip 
their clothing in their grief, and fall upon one another with... (here the original 
manuscript becomes illegible for several pages, and resumes in what appears to be a 
different hand.) 

And those who serve in these false temples shall be known by the tags of gold 


with which they profane their sacred black apron. For upon these tags shall be 


written, “Hello my name is,” as these poor lost souls needs must have even this 
simple thing written down, lest they forget. By this alone may ye know them for what 
they are, and know that they know not of true Coffee, nay, nor have they hope for 
redemption until they cast down their golden tags. For yea, it is more difficult for a 
servant of strange Coffee to understand true Java, than it is for a cracked Coffee 
bean to pass through an extra-fine espresso filter. 


The Ten Coffee Commandments. 

Said to be the ten sacred laws passed down to mankind when he gave us coffee, 
they rightly belong with the Second Book of Awakenings. However there is evidence 
that the Ten Coffee Commandments were recorded before the Second Awakening 
was ever penned, thus lending more controversy to this already heated issue. 

. | am thy Morning Coffee, thou shalt have no other Java before me! 
. Remember thy Coffee breaks, and keep them holy. 


. Honor thy sugar and cream. 


1 
2 
3 
4. Honor thy Coffee cup, and wash it often. 
5. Spillith not thy beans upon the ground. 

6. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbors espresso maker. 

7. Thou shalt not drink instant. For he who drinks instant shall be as one set upon by 
weariness unexpected, and his Coffee shall spill. 

8. That which has gone cold may yet be warmed again. 

9. Burn not thy tongue on Java too hot. 

10.Drink thy Coffee in good company, for where two or three are gathered together, 


there is Coffee in their midst. 


Contributors 


Beth Langford is a zoology student who of liver failure. If you have nothing better 


recently spent a summer in the Yukon, to do you can contact him via e-mail - 
working as a plant ecology research EricBlair23@gmail.com. 
assistant. Laura Cushing yet lives. Find her at 


Eric Blair was born in the fall of 1982, www.labarc.com. 

though no one is entirely sure why. In a Rick Silva grew up in Boston, Mass, 

futile attempt to give his life meaning he attended Cornell University, and currently 
co-created the Salt Lake City publication teaches chemistry at a high school on 
Chiaroscuro. He is also a member of the Cape Cod, where he resides with his wife 
experimental music trio The Samuel and two cats. He has been involved in 
Powers Rhythm 3. He is expected to die small press publishing since his college 


days. As a co-founder of Pentegram 
Komix & Graphix, Rick published and 
edited Kinships magazine, a speculative 
fiction literary magazine that ran six 
issues under Rick's editorship. Along with 
his wife Gynn, Rick is a partner in 
Dandelion Studios, a small press comic 
book company. Rick co-writes the 
Dandelion Studios comic Zephyr & 
Reginald: Minions for Hire, and he will 
also be writing scripts for several new 
Dandelion Studios projects scheduled for 
release in 2006. He writes a regular 
comic book review column for the comic 
fan site Comicwidows.com, and publishes 
his own zine, Caravan, on a somewhat 
irregular basis. Rick attends science fiction 
and gaming conventions around the 
northeastern states, and has been involved 
in the gaming scene for more than 20 
years. Rick also writes and performs 
poetry. Prior to his recent move back to 
Massachusetts, Rick taught high school 
science in Jersey City, New Jersey, where 
he was a regular at several open mic 
events. 

í is originally from New 
Hampshire. She received her degree from 
Massachusetts College of Art with a major 
in filmmaking. She currently lives and 
works on Cape Cod with her husband, 
Rick Silva. Together they make up 
Dandelion Studios, a small press comic 
book company. Gynn does all of the 
artwork for their comic Zephyr & Reginald: 
Minions for Hire. Her artwork has 
appeared in Space & Time magazine, and 
she was recently selected to be published 
in the 2005 24-Hour Comics Day 
anthology. In addition to doing her 
artwork, Gynn in involved in animal 
rescue, and has adopted two cats with 
special needs. Contact Rick & Gynn at 
www.dandelionstudios.com. 

Dangerous Lee is a syndicated columnist 
and single mom living in Michigan. Her 
column, Ask Dangerous Lee, appears in a 
several publications on and offline 
nationwide. She is currently working on a 
memoir and a book of short stories. Find 


her at http//www.myspace.com/dangerouslee 
or email her at 
askdangerouslee@hotmail.com 

Loki W. Kaspari is a writer and comic 
artist whose goal is to leave his honest 
job to write and draw full time, just like 
other writers and artists. His work includes 
Ace and Bog, a strip about a pair of 
working-class assassins. 

Misty O'Brien is a tempermental multi- 
disciplinary artist living in St. Cloud, MN 
with her husband, John. Interests include 
painting, music, reading, publishing, 
crocheting and being annoyed at web 
forms that won't allow the apostrophe in 
her last name. Besides this zine, she has 
websites at passiongroove.net and 
bravegirlstudio.net, works on art, and 
works part time in retail and in various 
capacities for VAS Littlecrow. 

John O’Brien is a writer living in St. 
Cloud, MN with his wife, Misty. He has 
written several chapbooks of poetry in his 
life, with boys + girls being the most 
recent. When he’s not working in the food 
service industry, his interests include horror 
movies, vampires, music, reading, & D&D. 
Vanesa Littlecrow W is a self-trained multi- 
disciplinary artist and businesswoman. 
Originally from Puerto Rico, she is the 
owner of Rice Print Shop in Rice, MN, 
and author of Polska, Sucka! and the 
Nine Lives of Catnose. She lives in a 
dome in the forest with her husband and 
two cats. 

Steve Green is a former newspaper 
reporter, and was a founding editor of 
Critical Wave: the European Science 
Fiction and Fantasy Review (1988-97). His 
prose and poetry has appeared in: The 
Anthology of Fantasy and the Supernatural 
(Tiger Books, 1994); Critical Vision: 
Random Essays and Tracts Concerning 
Sex Religion Death (Headpress, 1995); the 
magazines SFX, Flesh & Blood and The 
Dark Side (producing a monthly fanzine 
column for the last); Dreamers on the 
Sea of Fate (Sol, 1999) and Ten Years 
of Terror (FAB Press, 2001). He is the 
current vice-president of the Fantasy 


Amateur Press Association (est. 1937) and 
administrator of both the Delta Film Award 
(presented annually at the Festival of 
Fantastic Films in Manchester) and the 
Nova Awards for excellence in British and 
Irish fanzines (presented annually at the 
science fiction convention Novacon). 

Jamie Ribisi was born 1978 in a suburb 
of New York on Long Island, and studied 
at Boston University where she received a 
BFA in Painting. She moved back to 
Long Island and now devotes her time to 
creating art and curating art exhibitions. 
Jamie has also founded and developed 


Tim O'Brien: no bio submitted. 

Katrina Joyner: no bio submitted. 

Lauren Kenney: no bio submitted. 

Adrian S. Potter writes both poetry and 
short fiction. He was awarded first prize in 
the 2003 Langston Hughes Poetry Contest 
and the 2006 Červená Barva Press Short 
Story Contest. He has been published in 
Colere, City Works, Reed, Blue Earth 
Review, and The Binnacle, and will have 
work in an upcoming edition of Poesia. 
His book, a poetic memoir called My Own 
Brand of Blues, is forthcoming through 
RockWay Press. Additional propaganda can 


an online gallery, Pidjin.com, exhibiting and be found at 


introducing artists from all parts of the 
world. She continues to expand this site 
and offer opportunities to emerging artists. 
Gary R. Hoffman taught English and 
Speech/Drama for 22 years in Missouri 
and California. He quit teaching over 
20years ago to go into business for 
himself. He now lives in a motor home 
and says, “Home is where you park it!” 
He now travels the North American 
Continent, with Sandy and their cat, 
Callie, and attempts to stay in moderate 
climates. He has many short stories 
published in anthologies, ezines, and 
magazines. He has also won many 
awards for his short stories. 

Cecil L. Donaby Jr. is an aspiring 
freestyle poet and novelist. When he isn't 
writing, he can be found as a Chef in 
Detroit, MI. He can be reached at 
DTownMason@gmail.com or 
www.anglefire.com/art2/dieselfromthadinc. 
Morgan Barnhart is a writer who is 
currently doing everything in her power to 
get her stories done so she can send 
them off to agents. In the meantime, she 
publishes a monthly zine called, "Comics 
Monthly". Find her at morganbarnhart.com 


or email her at duckie.m@gmail.com. 


http://adrianspotter.squarespace.com/. 
Don Savant has been writing poetry since 


the age of 12. Since then he has 
completed several volumes of poetry, 
including two that he has self published. 
He can be contacted through 
www.myspace.com/donsavant or 
http://donsavant. 14.forumer.com. 

Jeremy Gibson is an inspiring writer from 
Phoenix, Arizona. He has been writing for 
the past four years and has ambitions of 
becoming a well known writer who has 
the reputation of changing people's lives 
through my literary legacy. He'd also like 
become an English teacher. Email him at 
SimplyJay921@yahoo.com. 

Submissions: Send submissions to 
misty@bravegirlstudio.net with “ITAK” as the 
subject line. Issues are quarterly (Jan, Apr, 
Jul & Oct). Payment is 1 copy. Visit 
bravegirlstudio.net for guidelines. 


— Fer-a—copy—of_ttTakes—A— 


perissue. 


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